Dust and Grim Reality
by Acacia24
Summary: The spreading of Quixotism. Inez Montoya's begins to see herself, not as kitchen maid, but rather as a highborn lady.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Don Quioxte, nor do I own the musical Man of La Mancha.

**This particular region of central Spain was a desolate place. There was nothing grand about it, no fine castles or idealistic hopes. There was only farmland and squalid lodges where those born as kitchen maids died as kitchen maids and those born as swineherds died as swineherds. **

**There was nothing fanciful about Inez Montoya either. She wasn't beautiful for the harsh environment had taken away a great deal of her youthful prettiness. Her cinnamon colored hair hung down her back like a horse's tail: long, thick and tangled. Burning dark eyes were set deep in her skull, tiny crinkles tugging at the corners, her lips thin and drawn and almost colorless. The rags she wore did nothing to conceal her sunburned arms. She was not beautiful, nor was she clever. The woman was unable to read even the simplest of words.**

**Even a romanticized setting was denied to her. The inn that she worked in was just as broken down, just as dilapidated as any other. Yes, Inez knew that this area of central Spain was a land of dust and grim reality. There was no use pretending otherwise. **

"**All right, you lot," Inez Montoya ordered crossly. "Give me your laundry to wash. You smell like donkeys, each and every one of you. You there- do not slip your hands underneath my skirt- I'm almost old enough to be your mother. How old am I? Forty-two. Oh? And just how much are you offering, young man? I don't think so, sir. Make it double and I'll meet you in your bedroom tonight. Come on! Come on! Give me your laundry! I haven't got all day!"**

**Laughing the muleteers tossed their filthy clothes for Inez to catch, and when her arms filled with soiled garments, she made her way towards the back of the inn where a rough wooden tub and scrub board sat waiting.**

**It was an unseasonably hot day in April. The overhead sun burned the back of her neck as Inez repeatedly plunged her hands into the soapy water, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. Loud guffaws soon distracted her from this chore, and, glancing up, Inez saw two prostitutes holding their sides in laughter. They were young and comely and served as a painful reminder of how she, Inez, had once been just as high-spirited and just as lovely before time wore her prettiness away. **

**Before Inez could chide the girls for their uselessness, Alma Martinez, the older of the two noticed Inez glaring in their direction and said merrily, "We are quite fortunate to have such a noble guest staying under our roof. Make sure to make his bed with care, Inez, for his lordship is sure to be weary from his quest. Speaking of beds, I wonder if the old fool is willing to pay for one of us to warm **_**his**_** bed tonight." **

"**Now, now," said Rosa Flores the younger prostitute. "We mustn't speak that way about the knight and his squire. He spoke rather nicely to us, called us ladies…"**

"**You mean the madman and his no-brained companion," Alma corrected indifferently and then facing Inez said, "Go to the inn's entrance and you'll see him! The old crackbrain who thinks he's a knight!" That said she and Rosa burst out with more raucous cackles.**

**Inez's answer was a stinging slap across Alma's gleeful face; Rosa recoiled before the older woman could aim a slap at her as well. "You mean to tell me that you two lazy good-for-nothings are gawking at boarders while I'm out here reeking in sweat? And who are you to give orders to me? Get inside and put lunch on the table! Go, before I crack your heads open!"**

**With Alma wearing a scornful expression on her face and Rosa's scrunched up as if to cry, the girls left soberly. Shaking her head, Inez began to hang the wet laundry on the clothesline as a strong wind whipped the clothes furiously, making them thrash like ocean waves during a storm. It just so happened that two of the muleteer's shirts got tangled together, and with a muttered curse Inez began to wrestle with the soaking mass as she attempted to separate them. **

**Two figures approached, and had Inez had been more attentive, she would have seen that the one was a scarecrow of a man and his friend, a cooking pot. She did notice, however, when the one in rusty chain mail stampeded forward with a lance raised. **


	2. Chapter 2

"Look, Sancho!" The emaciated figure tugged at the reins of his bony steed so that the animal faced the washerwoman. "Specters from the underworld have surfaced and are trying to rob the damsel of her innocent soul. Look at how she is surrounded by unholy specters! See how she struggles unsuccessfully to liberate herself?"

"She's merely hanging up clothes to dry, my lord."

"Clothes! Sancho, you fool! Those are not clothes, but spirits!" With his lance held upright, Don Quixote spurred Rozinante and charged towards the clotheslines, spearing the billowing shirts and impaling them. When the surrounding garments (or in his mind, an army of phantoms) were vanquished, the Knight of the Rueful Figure cast aside the lance in exchange for his sword and, ignoring her shouts of protests, removed the tangled garments from Inez's hands before slashing them into bits. "Victory!"

"Victory, my foot!" Inez spat. "Just look at what you did!" She furiously gestured to the disarray around her: clothes mangled, in tatters and even filthier than they had been before she washed them. "Look at this!" Inez waved a battered shirt in front of Don Quixote's visor. "Unfit to wear, thanks to you!"

The knight removed his helmet, his lips pulled into a serene smile as he eyed her in worshipful admiration. True, the maiden was screaming, and such behavior was unbecoming to such a highborn lady, but Don Quixote was pardoning for he knew that her hysteria was a result of terror. No doubt her ladyship was half-crazed from the attack. But perhaps he could pacify the maiden through his tender words and chivalrous demeanor. With that notion in mind, Don Quixote descended from Rozinante,

"My lady," he said, sinking to one knee, and very tenderly he went on. "I am fortunate to assist such a beauteous damsel as yourself- you, whose beauty rivals only that of sweet, fair Dulcinea. I declare that whilst I reside at this fine castle, I will serve you most devotedly as once the temple priests served Venus in her place of worship." As he spoke, the knight's eyes flicked upward towards the washerwoman's face and then dropped again to the ground like a pilgrim standing before a holy relic.

Inez glared from the kneeling Don Quixote to the rotund man who came sheepishly forward to collect the fallen helmet and lance. Sancho casually shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "Yes, I know that my master is not in his right mind."

"Lady, am I?" Inez snipped, her attention focused again on Quixote. "Lady indeed! Just how many ladies do you see dressed in rags and dripping with sweat?"

Quixote shook his head in puzzlement. "Is my lady under an enchantment? Does she not know she is dressed in gossamer and the drops that sprinkle her fair face are not sweat, but crystal tears?"

Mechanically Inez's arm whipped out to smack some sense into Quixote's head, but the knight misinterpreted Inez's actions and believed that the lady was sweetly offering her hand, which he took at once. It was dry and cracked, but to Quixote's idealistic senses, the skin he felt was smoother than the finest silk.

Boisterous chortles made Inez aware of the crowd that had gathered to glimpse the Quixote, some of them curious, others wanting a good chuckle. The sight of the madman pathetically kneeing in the dust and courting a middle-aged trollop such as Inez was too much for them. They were all laughing.

Humiliated and disgusted by Quixote's display, Inez tugged herself free. "Go to the devil!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Don Quixote, nor do I own the musical Man of La Mancha. **

The twenty-two year old muleteer who had brazenly groped Inez decided to squander his money on the services of a younger, more attractive woman. Standing in the dark, the washerwoman watched as two figures hurried into the stables. Inez did not harbor a love for the muleteer- in fact she disliked him intensely- but bitter envy lingered in her heart. Men once fought for her affections and would offer her money like a crowd at an auction; Inez would then give herself to the one who was willing to pay the highest price. No one bothered with her anymore. And on the rare occasions when a muleteer did flirt with Inez, it made her feel young again. But tonight she felt even more aged and washed-out then ever before.

Giving a resentful sigh, Inez turned to enter the lodge, but stopped briefly to observe the skeletal form patrolling the inn, a lance held in one hand and a shield in the other. Shaking her head and muttering about fools and madman, Inez stepped into the kitchen.

The room was dark, lighted only by a couple of stunted candles, the wax running along the rough wood of the table. Sitting on a chair, his balding head resting in his portly arms, sat the madman's friend. He was asleep and snoring softly; Inez shook his shoulder roughly. "Your lunatic master is out in the yard."

"Oh, yes," yawned Sancho Panza with unconcern, blinking his eyes drowsily "He is, as he explained to me just an hour ago, 'protecting the fair damsels who inhabit this castle.'"

"Well, aren't you going to bring him in, or are you just going to allow him to wander around in circles?"

The stout man shook his head. "I know my place. He's the knight, and I'm his squire."

"His what?"

"His squire," Sancho repeated simply. "I stand back as he battles, and afterwards I pick him up, dust him off and put him on his horse again."

"How exciting for you," Inez said sardonically.

Sancho shrugged carelessly. "It is."

"Then you are a fool." Inez cast the portly man an evaluating glance. Her hard expression then softened and she turned her back, pouring some cheap wine into two wooden goblets. Handing one to Sancho, Inez added, "I don't know who is the bigger fool: you or your knight."

"My master is a good man," Sancho said defensively and he took a swig of wine. "He would risk his life to save mine. He's a braver fellow than I am. Don't laugh," he persisted when Inez gave a sneering chuckle, "because today he showed just how brave he really is."

"What are you talking about?"

"The clothes you were hanging up to dry," said Sancho. "My master believed that they were spirits from hell."

"But it was just laundry!" Inez argued.

"But not to my master. To him, they were ghosts. And tell me, just how many men would come to your aid if you were attacked by evil spirits?"

Inez brushed back a strand of dusty hair. "None, I suppose."

"Exactly," said Sancho. "So you see, my master is a brave man."

"But he's insane!"

"That's true. But just because a man's insane, doesn't mean that he can't be brave," the squire challenged. "My master sees the world differently. To him, windmills are giants, inns are castles and-"

"And trollop washerwomen are highborn ladies," Inez finished for him.

Sancho met her gaze. "Exactly."

Inez was the first to look away, glancing down at her weathered hands. Sancho, observing this, said quietly, "Perhaps the lady should try to see herself the way my master does."

When she went to bed that night, Inez unlatched her windows as she always did on warm nights. There in front of the inn sat the knight on his skinny steed. When Don Quixote looked up and saw Inez Montoya bathed in the silvery moonlight, he raised his visor, gazing at her in respectful esteem. He bowed his head dutifully, and Inez, before she could stop herself, nodded in reply. She then cursed herself.

But as Inez went to blow out the candle, something compelled her to gaze at the small sliver of mirror that had been tacked onto the bedroom wall. Her cinnamon colored hair hung about her face in tangled, unkempt coils. Such a pity, Inez thought, that my hair is now as coarse as it is. This hair had once been her most glorified asset; Inez now looked at the mass dolefully. Grabbing a brush, the washerwoman combed out the snarls in a desperate endeavor to restore some of her old beauty. When she was through, thick soft ringlets of beautiful hair framed her face. Inez smiled at her mirrored image. Suddenly she did not seem so old and ugly anymore.


End file.
